Au Revoir
by Griselda Banks
Summary: Oneshot. "John had always known this day would come... But there would never be another Sherlock Holmes." Kidlock, no pairings intended.


**Author's Note: This is the latest installment in my kidlock fic series (currently "Inception" - "Marooned" - "A Study in Pink Nail Polish" - "The Blue Scarf"), and as such will probably only have full impact if you've read at least "The Blue Scarf." I don't know if I'll write any more of these fics, but if I do this one will remain the last chronologically; any others will be further adventures of John and Sherlock as children before this point in time. Since I started writing these fics, I've wanted to try my hand at my own version of a "Reichenbach Fall," if you will. And of course, being me, I had to indulge in a bit more fluff than these characters would probably ever show for real, even at such a tender age :P**

John had always known this day would come. Sherlock was two years ahead of him in school, and he was so much brighter than anyone else that it was inevitable he would be sent off to some prestigious secondary school eventually.

He just hadn't expected this year to pass so quickly.

It felt as though he'd known Sherlock forever, yet at the same time as though it had been only yesterday they were fending off bullies side-by-side for the first time. As the summer slipped swiftly through their fingers, John knew they were both aware of how little time was left to them, but neither of them said anything. They merely spent every minute they possibly could together – catching insects, examining drops of their own blood under Sherlock's microscope, and pretending to be detectives hunting down the elusive criminal mastermind Moriarty (one of Sherlock's inventive creations).

But those long, blissful summer days were now at an end. Tomorrow, John would trudge down the road to school again, and be forced to endure two years of wandering down halls that would always remind him of Sherlock. Lestrade and Molly would still be there, of course, and he knew he would get along reasonably well and make new friends.

But there would never be another Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft was waiting down at the end of the gravel path with the car that would whisk Sherlock away to school. John and Sherlock walked slowly down the path, carrying Sherlock's bags and dragging their feet to prolong this moment as long as possible.

John wished that, by some miracle, Sherlock would stay despite every good reason he had to go, or that there was some way he could follow him. Was this what became of everyone he cared about? Did they all have to leave him alone?

Sherlock came to an abrupt halt at a bend in the path that hid them behind a row of trees, dropping his large suitcase with a thump. Without Mycroft and the car in sight, and the Holmes mansion looming behind them, John could almost believe this was just another time he'd come for a visit and was saying goodbye for a day or two. Soon enough, they would see each other in school again and giggle over jokes no one else could understand.

Staring at the line of trees and the iron gate beyond, Sherlock said stiffly, "Well. This is it then. Time to say goodbye."

John remembered something his mother had said once. "No, not goodbye. See you later." He set Sherlock's other bag on the ground as well, and drew himself up with all the stubborn defiance he could muster in the face of the painful lump growing ever larger in his throat. "This isn't the end, Sherlock. We're going to see each other again, I just know it."

"How can you be so sure?" Sherlock wasn't looking at him, his face turned away so all John could see of him was the angle of one sharp cheekbone and his curly dark hair.

As John gazed at his friend, he saw the skinny boy grow into a tall, thin man with the same impatient energy and keen gaze, staring into a microscope with the same intense focus John had become so familiar with. "Because one day," he said, "you're going to be a brilliant detective who's so famous you'll be in all the papers, and then I'll read about you and come find you." He smiled, even though that was the last thing he felt like doing. "There's no way a genius like you _wouldn't_ become famous, you know."

The entire time John was talking, Sherlock kept his gaze fixed on the trees as though he found them fascinating. John began to wonder if Sherlock even cared. Maybe he was bored, and wished John would shut up so he could leave in peace. This parting wouldn't be anywhere near as hard for Sherlock, he knew – Sherlock was much more capable than John at making his way through the world and succeeding. He was so smart. He wouldn't have any trouble at all.

Then, with no explanation, Sherlock pulled the blue scarf off his neck and shoved it at John. "Here," he muttered, still not looking at John.

John stared at the woolen scarf for a long moment, knowing how much this simple gesture meant. Sherlock never went anywhere without that scarf, even during the hottest days of summer, and he rarely even let anyone else touch it. He'd even hit a girl once when she tried to tease him by tugging on the scarf. John had finally learnt that the blue scarf was Sherlock's mother's last Christmas present to him. It was the last piece of his mother that he had left, his most treasured possession.

"Sherlock, I...I couldn't-"

"To remember me by."

Sherlock stood, still holding out his scarf to John, still looking away, but his entire body seemed tensed up with pain. Now John could see him, curled up on a window seat in a cold dormitory, staring out at the rain pounding against the glass. Wondering if John still thought of him, or if he'd become invisible and forgotten like a ghost.

Biting his lip, John closed his hands around Sherlock's. "You're the best friend I've ever had, Sherlock. I don't need something like this to remember you."

"And you're the _only_ friend I've ever had." At last Sherlock looked back at him, his keen grey eyes filled with pain. "Keep it."

John swallowed painfully as his hands closed carefully around the blue cloth, accepting the greatest gift he could ever receive. Then, so that Sherlock wouldn't see the tears pooling in his eyes, John threw his arms around his best friend and held him close.

For a moment, Sherlock didn't seem to know what to do. Then, gingerly as if afraid that John would shatter and turn out to be nothing but a dream, Sherlock returned the embrace.

"See you later, John."

* * *

John Watson stepped into the laboratory at St. Bart's, but hesitated on the threshold. He'd been planning on using his lunch break to get a head start on his experiment, so that he could start writing his lab report and be the first one to hand it in. His professor was a hard man to impress, but John was determined to do it.

But someone, it seemed, had anticipated him. Another medical student already stood in the lab, bending over a microscope. Probably had the same idea about blood clots, too. Frowning, John let the door swing closed and walked in, determined not to let this other student make him lose his nerve. He would just have to be faster and better, that was all.

But then the other man straightened up and looked at him, and John drew up short. There was something...familiar about this man. Had they met before? That curly brown hair, the high cheekbones, those sharp, intelligent grey eyes...

"Sherlock? Sherlock Holmes?"

The man smiled, and John was left in no doubt. That was the genuine smile Sherlock had always reserved for him.


End file.
